"The snow started falling on the sixth of September, sort noiseless flakes filling the sky like a swarm of white moths, or like static interference on your N screen - whichever metaphor, nature or technology, you find the more evocative. Snow everywhere, ail through the air, with that distinctive sense of hurrying that a vigorous snowfall brings with it. Everything in a rush, busy-busy snowflakes. And, simultaneously, paradoxically, everything is hushed, calm, as quiet as cancer, as white as death. And at the beginning people were happy." But the snow doesn't stop. It falls and falls and falls. Until it lies three miles thick across the whole of the earth. Six billion people have died. Perhaps 150,000 survive. But those 150,000 need help, they need support, they need organising, governing. And so the lies begin. Lies about how the snow started. Lies about who is to blame. Lies about who is left. Lies about what really lies beneath. The Snow is a superb novel of global apocalypse, old hatreds and new beginnings.